


built for two

by Maculategiraffe



Series: it won't be a stylish marriage [4]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Happy Ending, M/M, Magic, Other, Prostration, Punishment, Slavery, Stockholm Syndrome, Take me instead, Torture, agony beam, is that a trope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-15 19:44:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16939518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maculategiraffe/pseuds/Maculategiraffe
Summary: Joan Jett and the Blackhearts, "Crimson and Clover"Tom Petty, "Free Fallin'"The Proclaimers, "I'm Gonna Be (500 Miles)"





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the_ragnarok](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/gifts).



John's in the passenger seat of a nice car, a Sebring if he's not mistaken, trembling. He'd like to stop-- it might be annoying Daisy, the hard shivers, the occasional chatter of his teeth, she might decide to push him sideways out of his senses again, and then there's even less he'll be able to do to stop whatever's coming next. But he can't stop shaking.

He says, "Daisy, _please--_ "

She sighs, not looking at him, focusing on the road ahead, her hands on the wheel. In better circumstances, he'd be devoting more curiosity to how and when she learned to drive a car. 

"Speak," she says. "You aren't going to make things worse."

Well, in that case--

"He didn't mean to-- inconvenience you," John starts, and immediately regrets it. "I mean, I know it's more than an inconvenience, I'm sorry--"

"I value you very much, John," says Daisy evenly. "Enough, so far, to put up with the absolutely _staggering_ amount of disruption Mr. Finch has caused me. But it was obviously a mistake to allow you to wheedle me out of punishing him for his last transgression. If I don't teach him a lesson this time, then this may happen again, and as much as I value you, I can't promise that value will continue to outweigh the sheer amount of trouble Mr. Finch seems capable of causing."

John swallows. She's never threatened that before. What if he stops being worth it to her? Will she kill them both? Sell them? Kill Finch and sell John, so that he has to go on living-- without--

She says, more gently, "You see, John. It's for his own good. I'll do nothing that causes permanent damage. Nothing that will even require medical attention. I'll allow you to see him as soon as I'm finished, so that you can see he's unharmed."

She's being indulgent, but John still can't-- he can't-- and she's right, this is John's own fault, Harold got away with it last time and that's why he's done this again, and that's because of John, John should be the one to--

"Daisy," he says, oh please, "do it to me. Whatever you're gonna do to him, do it to me instead." 

"I'm not going to punish you, John," says Daisy, sounding slightly irritable. "You've done nothing wrong."

"No, this is my fault," says John, urgently, mouth dry, "because I-- I'm the one who, who talked you out of punishing him last time, and like you said, that was a mistake. So I deserve it, and if you hurt me bad enough, he won't do it again. If he knows that's what happens, that I get hurt." 

He thinks that's true. Harold hates knowing anyone's suffering, and even more so if he thinks he could have prevented it. 

Daisy glances at him, keeps driving. 

He can't grovel at her feet, not here; he can't even get down on the floor of the car, to abase himself a little, because she told him to buckle his seatbelt, and now is no time to disobey.

"Please," he says. 

She says, "Let's discuss this when we arrive."

 

When the car stops, he doesn't move. He doesn't know if he's supposed to. He doesn't even unbuckle his seatbelt.

Daisy comes around to his side of the car, opens his door, like they're on a nice date and she's showing off her chivalry. 

He does go for his seatbelt, then, but he fumbles it, and Daisy reaches in to help him.

When she steps back, he pitches forward out of the car. He's not going to waste time standing up. He presses his forehead to the pavement in front of her feet, thinks about licking it. Kissing her feet is a privilege. 

She sighs. "Get up, John."

He tries. He doesn't want to disobey. His legs feel like they're made of Jell-O. He might throw up. 

He's up to both knees when she kneels down on the pavement, too, puts out a hand and cups his jaw. He stares into her pretty, unreal face, trembling.

"All right," she says finally, and he closes his eyes, says, "Thank you."

 

It looks like the same white room as the last time Finch pulled this shit, except that there's a table in the middle of it, a padded table, looking kind of like a massage table except for all the straps attached to it. Kind of like a bed on the locked ward. 

Finch is here. Not sitting on the floor. Standing, his back against one of the white walls. He looks pale.

Daisy says, "John," and points to the table. John goes over and lies down on it, on his back-- if that's wrong, she'll tell him, but he wants to show her how quickly and readily he obeys, this is no time to ask questions-- while Daisy approaches Finch.

She says, "Mr. Finch, give me what's in your pocket."

Finch hesitates, but does as he's told. 

Daisy weighs it in her hand, then comes back over to John, shows it to him, before she puts it in his cupped right hand. It's the driveway pebble she gave him, the last time Finch fucked up, that he gave Finch afterwards.

"If you want this to stop," Daisy tells John, "let go."

John nods, grasps it firmly.

"Thank you," he says.

She straps him down. His wrists, his ankles, his knees, his elbows. He's going to be flailing then, or trying to, and she doesn't want him to accidentally injure himself. 

"Thank you," he says, about that too.

She pets his hair, gently, and he tries to relax, to please her.

"Tell me when you're ready," she says, and he says, "Ready."

 

When it stops, his throat hurts, from screaming, and the places where he's strapped down hurt, from straining, and his hand with the rock in it hurts. He thinks he might have cut himself on it, gripping it so hard. 

He doesn't know how long that lasted-- it can't really have been a week, he'd be hungrier-- and he doesn't know if it's over now, or if she's just giving him a breather. He doesn't dare relax his grip.

Finch's voice is saying something.

"--please, he's done nothing to deserve this--"

"No, he certainly hasn't." Daisy's voice, cold.

"I'm OK, Finch," John rasps, his throat raw, and then it starts again, and he just has to keep hold of the rock.

The next time it stops, he keeps screaming for a little while, or whisper-screaming, weakly, too tired to stop on a dime. But he still has hold of the rock. 

He moans a little, whimpers, and then sobs start shaking him, uncontrollably, tears spattering his face out of nowhere, as if it's started to rain. _Falling from the stars._

"For God's sake!" Harold cries out, in what sounds like pain, and John hates that he can't stop crying. Making this worse for Finch.

Then someone's trying to take his rock away, and he makes a thick-tongued sound of protest, grips it harder. 

They stop. Good.

Someone kisses his lips, as if he's Sleeping Beauty, which makes him notice his eyes are closed. He opens them.

Daisy's leaning over him, undoing the straps. He looks up at her, eyes blurred with tears. He wants to ask if it's over, but if he does and it isn't, even though he still has the rock, she might think he isn't willing to take the rest of the punishment, she might do something to Finch instead.

"No more," she tells him, voice gentle. 

He hauls in his breath, manages, "...thank you."

She strokes his hair again before she finishes undoing the straps, and then puts her arms around him, lifting his top half off the table. He leans on her to get to his feet, although -- true to her word-- he doesn't actually seem to be injured. He's limp, though, shaky, drained, and it occurs to him that, in addition to being a punishment, this was probably a good meal for Daisy. He did well; he did it for Finch. _Protect and serve._

"Come," she says. "Let's get you to your room."

"Please," he whispers, throat still sore. She's being gentle, she kissed him, he'll risk it. "Daisy, please--"

"Very well," she says. "Come here, Mr. Finch."

Then Finch is there, and Daisy's giving him John, John's wrapped in Harold's arms, clasped against him. He scrambles to support his own weight, not hurt Harold's back, his own arms coming up half for balance, half to cling. 

"I love you," he rasps, and a smile breaks out on his face, as sudden and involuntary as the tears. It's OK, he's earned saying it, this time. Earned being held like this. The rock's in his hand, still; he'll give it back to Harold in a minute, Harold will put it back in his pocket, where it belongs. 

"I love you, too, John," says Finch, presumably because he has a generous heart and no other way to reward John. John won't hold him to it, not past this moment. But-- 

"Thank you," John says, and closes his eyes again, breathing in the warm skin-scent of Harold Finch, never happier in his life.


	2. Chapter 2

[two months later]

John wakes when someone sits down on the bed next to him. He opens his eyes, looks up at Daisy. Waits.

She reaches to run her finger lightly along his cheek, smooths his hair back from his forehead. Then she pulls back the covers to expose his chest, folding them so that everything below his waist is still covered, like the scene is rated PG-13.

She touches his chest, in the center, below his collarbone. Traces something there, with a fingertip. 

Then she takes her hand away, and says, "Go take a shower."

 

She comes into the bathroom while he's lingering under the hot water a little longer than hygiene strictly requires, and he fumbles to shut the water off, nearly scalds himself in his hurry. Opens the frosted glass door of the shower stall, dripping.

He's ready to apologize for taking so long, but she smiles at him, takes a towel from the rack and hands it to him. Watches as he dries himself off. 

He still doesn't know if she gets anything out of the sight of his naked body, the way a human woman would-- well, a human woman inclined that way, anyway-- but it can't hurt to do it a little slowly and sensually, under her gaze. She's never told him not to, and it's better than not trying.

She takes the towel from him when he's done, hangs it back up. Then she reaches out to touch his shoulder. Cups his bicep, squeezes slightly. 

He holds very still as her hand slides to his belly, prods gently at the muscles of his abdomen, and then to his waist. She steps closer, runs her palm down to his hip, and then turns him by it, so that he stands with his back to her. Palms his ass, and then the meat of his thigh just below the ass. What the pros call the sweet spot. His cock stirs, interested.

Then she takes him by the shoulder, spins him back to face her. 

"Shave," she says, and then clarifies, "Your face."

He does, goes to the sink, lathers up his beard stubble, while she watches. He's careful, thorough. Doesn't know how to make this a display of desirability, exactly, but he can at least display that he does as he's told.

He rinses his face, and stands still, waiting for more orders, or for her touch, or for-- whatever comes next.

"Brush your teeth," she says, and he does-- even less appealingly or seductively, but she doesn't stop watching-- and, when he's done, waits.

"Come with me," she says, and he follows her back out into the bedroom. "Stay there."

He stops, in the center of the floor. She goes to her chair, sits down, looking at him.

"Turn around," she says. "All the way around. Slowly."

He does, and as he does, he remembers the first time he woke up as her possession. How she made him stand up from the bed, naked, wincing, every muscle screaming, and turn for her. He was a lot thinner then, a lot weaker too, exhausted and still half drugged, beaten and fucked to shit, bruised and welted and torn, and she smiled.

She smiles now, too, when he faces her again.

"Walk to me," she says, and he does, stands before her. "Kneel."

He kneels down at her feet, looks up at her.

"Your hair's gotten so long," she says, putting her hand on it-- it's still damp, from the shower-- and running her fingers through it. "Give me your hands."

He holds them up to her, and she inspects his fingernails, which he keeps clipped just below the quick, for a few long moments, and then clasps his hands in hers, draws them into her lap.

"John," she says. "When I restored Mr. Finch's limited internet access, at your request, this last time, I set certain measures in place, to alert me if his activities violated certain boundaries. Boundaries of which he was-- very aware."

It's astounding, how fast his brain exhausts every possibility of how to react to this-- or maybe not astounding, because he's tried literally everything he can think of already. Reasoning with Finch, reasoning with Daisy, licking Daisy's shoes, offering to take Finch's punishment on himself. Lying on that table, screaming.

He tried _so hard_ , and it hurt _so bad_ , and the kicker, the absolute kicker, is that he actually thought it might work. He thought he could save them both. 

But nothing's ever going to work. He should have known better. Harold will never stop. It's not in his nature, no matter what the risks, to himself or John. And no matter what Daisy's about to tell him-- whether this is actually strike three, like she warned him it might be, and they're both about to die, or be sold-- be sold, right, that's why she was inspecting his condition so carefully, he's about to go back on the market--

\--or this isn't actually strike three yet and they're moving again, or she's taking him to the white room to strap him down again, only worse this time because last time didn't work, or some other punishment, maybe she won't feed him for awhile, maybe that's why she was touching him like that, to see how much fat he's carrying, how long he can live without food, or--

\--he's crying, and he puts his head down in Daisy's lap and lets himself sob, quietly, racking sobs and gulps for air like after she hurt him so much, in the white room. She puts her hands on his head, caresses his hair--

\-- it's still over, because Finch will never stop. He'll beat himself bloody and broken against the bars, as long as there are bars. It's just who he is. This was never going to work.

The one thing John thought his life could possibly be good for. What a fucking joke.

Daisy lets him cry himself out, into her lap, her soft skirt. She rubs his shoulders, his neck, as he sobs.

When he's quiet, head lying heavy in her lap, the cloth of her skirt wet with his tears, she says, "It isn't strike three. I caught it early, this time, and I've already cut off his access to the internet, so there's no real harm done."

He nods. 

Then pulls himself together, folds himself down to the floor. Kisses her feet, in thanks, and apology, and submission, to whatever she does next. He'll still do anything, take anything, even if it's only postponing the inevitable end. 

"I know," she says. "Kneel up. Look at me."

He does. His eyes are raw and stinging, probably red and swollen. But so what? She's made more of a mess of him than this before.

She inspects him, and then says, "Tilt your face up a little more towards me. Close your eyes." 

He does, and feels, after a moment, a touch on his left eyelid-- a kiss, he realizes, her lips soft and cool on the heated skin there-- and then another on his right, and then a kiss on his lips. 

He stays still, eyes still obediently closed, heart beating fast and hard. Usually when she kisses his mouth it's because she's unusually pleased with him, because he's been, or is being, very good. So it's-- reassuring, but also frightening, because he knows punishment must be coming. Is she touching him so gently now, kissing him so sweetly, out of pity? Advance comfort, for how much he's about to suffer? 

If he's lucky, she'll let him be the one to suffer, like last time. He hopes for that, he does, he'll beg for it if she wants him to, but it's harder now, because he remembers last time, how bad it was. 

"You may open your eyes," she says, and he does.

"Lie down," she says. "On your back."

He does, on the floor, the rug slightly scratchy on his naked back, and she kneels down next to him, leans over him. Touches his chest again, in the same spot as before.

"This is going to hurt," she says.

He nods.

"Badly," she says. "But not for long."

He nods again, more tears pooling in his eyes. He hates being such a crybaby, but he has some idea of what she means when she says something is going to hurt _badly._

"Don't move," she says, and touches his chest again, with her finger.

She didn't say not to scream, but he tries anyway; that would probably involve more motion than she wants. It feels like her fingertip is red-hot, white-hot, a branding iron with which she's quickly, efficiently drawing-- something-- on his skin, or maybe on the muscle underneath. He breaks out in a cold sweat, whines very softly, bends all his effort to suppressing his body's reflex to try to escape the touch.

"Done," she says, and presses her palm to the place on his chest where her finger was, and it stops hurting, immediately, a cool sensation of relief extinguishing the searing pain. 

He's shaking. She leans down again and gathers him up into her arms, kisses his lips again.

"My brave John," she says. "You did so well. No more pain, now. That's all. You were so good, and so brave, and now it's done."

That's _all?_ That was the punishment? Less than a minute of localized pain?

"That wasn't a punishment," says Daisy. "Just something I needed to do. No punishment, not this time. Not for either one of you."

_What?_

"I have more for you to do today," she says. "But nothing that will hurt. And you may rest, first."

So he does, goes limp in her arms, against her soft breast, her warmth. Catches his breath, breathes. Nothing hurts. She says nothing will. 

She's still being so gentle, so tender even, that it scares him a little; not that she's usually _rough_ with him, or that it's unusual for her to show him some affection, when he's being good, but this level of-- demonstrative-ness-- isn't normal. But he doesn't think she's lying. Why would she bother to lie to _him?_

When his breathing's evened out, when his tears have dried, when his body's caught up with his mind and gotten the _no more pain_ memo, he says-- hoarse; his first words since waking up-- "I'm ready."

She tilts his head up towards her, kisses his mouth again.

"Good boy," she says. "Get dressed."

He gets up, still a little shaky, but getting steadier, now that he has a task.

He goes to the dresser, gets out clothes. T-shirt, boxers, button-down, jeans. She watches, sitting on the floor, as he dresses, like a reverse striptease.

(Before he puts the T-shirt on, he looks down at his chest, curious, but there's no scar or mark, nothing to show. He wonders what that was about, besides his endurance and obedience, which must have satisfied her. It didn't feel like she was moving her finger randomly. _Something I needed to do._ )

"Socks and shoes, too," she says.

He obeys. There's socks in the dresser, and shoes under it, a couple pair.

The last time she had him wear shoes, it was for the car ride, the last time they moved, just before she let him take Harold's punishment. 

That has to mean-- does it?-- that she's taking him out. Out of the house. Are they moving again, after all? If they aren't, then what-- then where--

She said it wasn't strike three, so she isn't getting rid of him. She said no more pain today. He holds fast to those things, to keep from panicking. 

When he's dressed, she stands up, briskly brushes off her skirt and her blouse, and somehow looks as spick-and-span as if she's never in her life dreamed of cuddling a weeping, naked, full-grown man in her starched and ironed lap.

"Are you hungry?" she asks, and he remembers her asking him that the first morning, how he snapped at her, _Of course,_ and she laughed. Laughed, and fed him.

He nods. He's not hungry like he was that first morning, not starving, but yes, he's hungry for breakfast.

She comes to him, takes him by the hand, leads him to the door of his room. Opens it. He shivers a little as he crosses the threshold.

He's already seen more of this house than he ever did the first one, or even the second one. He wasn't drugged, or magically brain-fuzzed, when he arrived here. A little out of his mind with terror-- he remembers being so scared he fell straight out of the car onto his knees and face, without looking up to see where they were-- but after his punishment, he was allowed to crawl at Daisy's heels through the halls and up the stairs to his room, so he's seen these halls and these stairs before. 

He wonders where Finch's room is. He wonders where they're going. It's strange, walking upright with Daisy, hand in hand, as if he's her boyfriend.

Even with the thought he already had, the basic expectation that she must be taking him outdoors because of the shoes, a little shock goes through him when she leads him towards what's clearly a door to the outside, and opens it, onto warm spring sunlight. 

He doesn't mean to, but he stops, like a balking horse, just before the threshold. He wants to beg her not to do this to him, but he doesn't have any right, and anyway, do what to him? He doesn't even know. 

Just that anything that involves leaving the house is-- something new-- and therefore harder to bear in advance.

She looks up at him, not smiling, and he waits to be reprimanded. 

"Sweet John," she says, softly, "be brave."

He swallows, and nods, and, leashed by her hand, follows her outside.


	3. Chapter 3

There's trees outside, flowers, rolling expanses of green lawn. No neighbors' houses in sight. 

The car's parked out front, the same one she drove him here in. (Sebring coupe, like he thought. '01, two-door, black, glossy as new.) She opens the passenger's side door for him, like last time, and he gets in.

"Buckle up," she says, cheerfully this time, and he does. She gets in on the driver's side, buckles her own seatbelt, pats his thigh affectionately before she starts the car.

They drive on a tree-lined road. No buildings in sight.

After a minute, somewhat to John's surprise, Daisy turns on the radio. Flicks around a bit, past a warbling, breathy female voice that sounds like it's in pain, a crash of heavy metal, a couple bouncy bars of bubblegum pop, and settles on Joan Jett and the Blackhearts.

_My, my, such a sweet thing. I wanna do everything. What a beautiful feeling._

"Listen, John," says Daisy. "They're playing our song."

After a stunned second, John actually laughs out loud. Goddamn, for an eldritch creature that keeps him as livestock, she's pretty funny sometimes.

She smiles, watching the road.

 _Crimson and clover. Over and over_.

When the song ends, they still haven't passed any other buildings, or even street signs. 

There's no DJ chatter before the next song starts up. Tom Petty. At any given moment, anywhere in America, there's a radio station in range playing Tom Petty. Someone said that to him, once. He can't remember who. 

_She's a good girl, loves her mama. Loves Jesus, and America too._

This definitely isn't their song, but Daisy doesn't change it, seems to be enjoying it. John likes it, too; it's relaxing in its familiarity. He wonders if she put the radio on to soothe him. 

(He listens to music, sometimes, on the little mp3 player she gave him, which has a surprising number of songs he knows and likes on it. He's thanked her for it more than once, after realizing that she must have either taken the trouble to search his mind for his favorites, or, at the very least, used some streaming program's recommendation algorithm to make an educated guess. Went out of her way, to give him pleasure. She does that-- more than you'd expect, really. More than he expects.)

_Now I'm free. Free fallin'._

There's starting to be buildings. Street signs. Shopping centers, houses. 

No city he recognizes.

He worries for a second that he shouldn't be looking, but if she didn't want him to, wouldn't she have told him to close his eyes? 

"Yes," she says. "Don't worry. You may look."

He doesn't know if that means she trusts him not to try to escape, or isn't the slightest bit worried he'll succeed if he does try. 

She doesn't answer that thought.

_Gonna free fall, out into nothing. Gonna leave this world for awhile..._

The song ends, and the DJ starts talking. Daisy turns the radio off two words in ("That was--") and, not long after, pulls up in front of what looks like a restaurant, and puts the car in park.

"Unbuckle your seatbelt and get out," she says to John, as an eagerly smiling, pimple-faced kid in some kind of uniform comes trotting up to her side of the car. John does as he's told, as she opens her door too, gets out, leaving the car running. The kid hands her half a piece of cardboard, gets in, drives away.

Valet parking. Right.

John waits on the curb, standing, hoping that's right, hoping if it isn't, she won't discipline him in public.

 _In public._ They're in public. She's brought him out in public. When's the last time-- 

His mind shies away violently from the memory of the last time. Before Daisy. Before the people before Daisy. Before.

Daisy takes his hand again, leads him into the building, which is in fact a restaurant.

Another kid, a girl, a pretty girl, leads them to a table on a little patio out back, trellises and flowering bushes enclosing it without blocking the sunshine.

No one else here is kneeling, so John takes a chance and takes a chair, as Daisy sits down opposite, and she doesn't correct him. The little waitress hands them menus, asks if they'd care for drinks.

John looks at Daisy.

"Coffee and a hibiscus mimosa," she says, and looks right back at John. "What would you like, darling? Now, _don't_ make me drink alone."

She's playing, she's having fun, smiling her impish little smile at him. She's also giving him an order.

"Same," he says to the little waitress. It's the first word he's spoken to anyone but Daisy and Finch, since she bought him. The third word this morning, since _I'm ready._ He clears his throat. "Please."

She says yes sir, writes it down, goes away, promising to be right back.

Daisy says, "Aren't you going to look at your menu?"

 _Menu_. How long-- when's the last time--

He opens the menu obediently, reads the words. He can read, he hasn't forgotten how to do that. The names of the dishes are vaguely familiar. Eggs Florentine, crab Benedict. Beignets. For a minute he can't remember what beignets are, and then he thinks of powdered sugar, coffee, the smell of frying dough, the hours-long wait. New Orleans, Cafe du Monde. 

There's a lump in his throat. He shuts the menu.

"Have you decided already?" Daisy asks.

He looks up at her. He doesn't have the right to ask, but it's all he can think, and she isn't bothering, this morning, to act as if she can't hear what he's thinking:

_Why did you bring me here?_

"Do you ever miss it?" she asks. "Things like this. Restaurants. Menus. Cocktails."

"I don't--" He swallows. "I don't-- think about it. It's not-- it's not what I'm for."

"I decide what you're for, John," she says, smiling sweetly.

"I know." He lowers his eyes, the closest he can get, in public, to a proper obeisance. The other quietly chatting couples on the patio aren't paying any attention to them, but that could change.

"I know you know," she says. "So you don't think about this kind of thing? Ever?"

"It's." He stares at the table, and then the waitress is back with their coffee and their cocktails. 

He can't remember the last time he drank a cocktail. He doesn't want to try to remember. That, or anything.

"Ready to order?" the waitress asks, little pen pad poised. 

"I'll have the fruit plate," says Daisy, "and, dear, did you say you wanted the crab Benedict?"

That does sound good; he nods. Says, to the waitress, "Please." 

She writes, and smiles, and leaves.

"You were saying," Daisy says. 

What was he saying?

"I asked you if you ever think about this kind of thing."

"It's easier not to," he says, after a second, and, when she seems to be waiting for more, "I was never-- good at it-- anyway. Being, being a person. Making choices, for myself."

It's true. He's not good. Not naturally. He tries, but.

"And now it makes me--" He takes a breath. "You know-- the world, out here-- it isn't all that safe, for me. You, uh. You know where you-- got me."

(Finch: _I'm perfectly well aware of where I found you._ )

"Yes," says Daisy. "Well, I've taken one or two precautions, of course, before bringing you outside the protection of my home. You won't be easily recognized, not by your own kind. Incidentally, they can't tell you've been crying, either. I didn't want to draw attention."

She takes a dainty sip of her pink mimosa.

"Thank you," he says, after a second.

"You're welcome," she says. "Although, in point of fact, your own kind aren't the greatest threat to your safety, and I haven't treated them as such."

She drinks again, and he feels--

\--on his chest, the place she touched this morning, where her finger burned him. It doesn't hurt now, but it's _warm_ , as if blood hotter than his own is pouring through it, as if it's the filament in a lightbulb that's been turned on. He doesn't see a glow when he-- unable to resist-- looks down at his shirt, but that's what it feels like.

Then it-- fades, dims, cools, till there's nothing there to feel.

Daisy sets her drink back down on the table.

"No one who can see that mark will touch you, while you bear it," she says. "At least, no one with good judgement. And if anyone-- unwise-- should venture to try--"

She smiles. It's not her pleased smile, or her reassuring smile, or her mischievous smile. It's cold, zero Kelvin cold, and despite her dimples, no one who saw it would mistake her for human.

"I'll tell you what," she says, and for a second he could swear her teeth are pointed. All of them. "If it happens, I'll let you watch."

Then-- pretty and demure and flirtatious again-- she says, "You haven't touched your cocktail."

He lifts the mimosa to his lips and swallows, careful-- even in his slightly dazed state-- not to pull a face. He's never liked them much anyway, and this one tastes like flower petals. But she told him to drink it. Or implied, anyway.

She laughs. "What would you prefer? An Irish coffee? A Bloody Mary?"

He thinks he did used to like Bloody Marys, actually.

"Order yourself one, when she comes back," says Daisy. "I want you to enjoy this meal."

That sounds like it's his last.

"Really, John," she says. "Are your pleasures so cataclysmically rare as all that?"

"No," he says, truthfully, thinking of his pleasures. There are a lot. The mp3 player, for one. The hot shower, not only this morning but every morning; the long, safe sleep, in a soft bed, between clean sheets, not only last night but every night. Good food, enough to nourish him, keep him strong. Gentle touch, her caresses, the release she often allows him. Finch, safe and whole, snappish and tender with him, almost every day.

Finch.

"Daisy," he says, and then the waitress is back with their food. 

He says, because he's been told to, "Can I get a Bloody Mary, please?"

"Of course, sir," she says, writing on her pad, and walking away again.

He looks down at his food. He's hungry, and it looks good, but his stomach is in knots.

"Why?" Daisy asks. "You're doing beautifully."

He looks up at her, and she says, softly and sweetly, "I ask so much of you, sweet John, and you're always so brave. Be brave. Eat."

He lifts his fork, cuts one of his eggs and watches the yolk bleed out over the puffy white and the crab cake and English muffins. He cuts a bite, lifts it to his mouth. Chews, swallows. It's good.

"Good," Daisy says, and picks up a piece of pineapple with her fingers, lifts it to her lips, making it look perfectly normal, formal even, like nobody ever dreamed of eating fruit chunks with a fork.

A few bites later, his Bloody Mary arrives, and when the waitress leaves again, Daisy says, "Drink."

This is more like it. The tang of the Tabasco and lemon, the rich salt of the cold tomato juice, and oh the _sting_ of the vodka. 

It gives him a flush of artificial courage, and he says, again, "Daisy--"

"I know what you're going to ask," she says. 

Of course she does.

"But," she says, looking at him seriously, speaking quietly, "do you really think he would agree? No matter where I left him, or how well I hid us away afterwards, don't you think he would devote his entire existence, and all the considerable ingenuity he's currently using to try to escape, to finding us and freeing you? Whether you liked it or not?"

That does sound like Finch.

"I do have an alternate solution to propose," Daisy says. "It will require some courage on your part, but you don't lack for that, my sweet John."

He swallows, waits.

"I'd like to tell you after we get back to the house," she says. "I promise neither you nor he will suffer because of the delay."

He nods.

"Good," she says. "Eat. And drink your cocktail; it will relax you."

He alternates bites of the rich, fluffy, layered food with sips of the cocktail. Both are good. He worries a little about the alcohol, though. He's not used to it any more. What if he gets _too_ relaxed, and does something wrong?

"Like what?" Daisy asks.

He doesn't know. Just-- something wrong. He's always doing the wrong thing, without meaning to. Or not doing the right thing, because he doesn't know he's supposed to, and if they have to tell him then it's already too late, they're already angry.

That's why it's been so good, to belong to Daisy. To be told what to do, so he can be good. It's hard, because it doesn't come naturally to him, but he wants to be good, he's always wanted to be good.

He thought he could be good enough for Finch, but.

He's going to try not to think about that right now. He doesn't know what her solution involves, but she said he has to be brave for it, and right now he's being brave about public brunch. One ordeal at a time.

 

When the waitress has brought back Daisy's credit card (he tries unobtrusively to see the name on it, just because he's curious whether it's Daisy or something else, but it's the wrong angle, and she doesn't show it to him), and left again, Daisy stands and holds out her hand, and leads him out front, to where her car is already waiting.

"Yes," she says, as she pulls away, "we're going home. You did very well."

He takes a deep, shaky breath, lets it out slowly.

"Thank you," he says. 

Now he just has to worry about what more she'll ask of him when they get home, how hopeless it will be to actually fix anything, how he'll have to do it anyway, bear it, whatever it is, because anything is better than not trying.

She turns the radio back on.

The station-- an '80s one, it must be-- is playing another familiar song, and John grins despite himself when he recognizes it. Daisy glances at him.

_And when the money comes in for the work I do, I'll pass almost every penny on to you..._

"You like this song," Daisy says.

He nods.

_But I would walk five hundred miles, and I would walk five hundred more, just to be the man who walked a thousand miles to fall down at your door..._

Daisy is smiling again, and because of that, or because of the song, or because he's eaten, or because she says he's done well, or just because they're going home, John feels better. 

She has a solution to propose. Maybe it'll buy them some time. It's something; it's more than he should ever have realistically expected. 

That's been his problem, his whole life. Getting his hopes up.

...........

 

When she closes the door of his room behind them again, it's a relief.

She sits down in her chair, draws him down to kneel at her feet again, and that's a relief, too.

"How hard was that?" she asks, and he smiles a little; she hasn't asked him that in awhile.

"You know," he says.

She reaches to smooth his hair back again. 

"Yes," she says. "I know."

Then she says, "Look at me, John."

He lifts his head.

"Give me your hands."

He does.

"Do you want to hear my idea?"

He does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Joan Jett and the Blackhearts, "Crimson and Clover"](https://youtu.be/hdhonK8NMm8)
> 
>  
> 
> [Tom Petty, "Free Fallin'"](https://youtu.be/7BKda_T1eVM)
> 
>  
> 
> [The Proclaimers, "I'm Gonna Be (500 Miles)"](https://youtu.be/oUv0NbjbGzQ)


	4. Chapter 4

They eat dinner at the table, because Finch says civilization is crumbling and he'll stand a lone bulwark against the tides of barbarism if he must, except when Finch is caught up in his work and forgets about dinner completely and John has to bring him a plate and then sit down at his feet and lean on his leg and whine like a bad dog, to get him to eat anything at all. He'll smile, and alternate bites with John, that way.

But sometimes, like tonight, Finch's work isn't going well, or else he's lonely, and he comes into the kitchen while John's cooking, bothering John for tasks.

John's given him a few things to do, so he feels like he's helping, even though it takes Finch about five times as long to dice an onion or snap a bowl full of green beans than it would take John to just do everything alone. But he loves it, anyway, Finch in the kitchen with him, meticulously chopping or snapping or rolling something into John's carefully-already-seasoned breadcrumbs. He has to watch Finch like a hawk and make sure Finch doesn't get any cute ideas about adding seasonings to John's recipes. Finch wouldn't know proportion if it mugged him in Central Park.

……..................

 

"On what terms?"

They're in the room where Daisy houses Finch, where John's never been before; it's always been the other way around. 

Finch's isn't that much different from John's. A bed, a chair, a bathroom, a dresser, a TV screen. Books. There's a desk in here too, with notebooks and pens on it, and a straight chair, where Finch is sitting, back to the desk, facing John and Daisy.

Daisy's sitting on the chair by the bed. John's on the floor, between them. Tense, watching them both. If this doesn't go well--

Daisy says, "You forget about me, Mr. Finch." 

"What?" Finch snaps.

"Not literally," says Daisy, calm. "John objects strongly to the idea of my actually modifying your memory. But insofar as you can. You have other enemies, more worthy of pursuit, and of defeat. Stay focused on them. Not on me."

Finch doesn't answer. He's glaring at her. 

She says, reasonably, "I haven't treated you so badly, have I? You're both physically healthy. Thriving. And when the psychological problems you were having proved intractable, I offered an alternative. I _do_ hope you'll consent."

"It's late in the game for you to concern yourself with consent," says Finch coldly.

"It's _very_ late in the game, Mr. Finch," Daisy says, her own voice downright icy. "I might well venture, in fact, that this particular game is drawing to a close. And that you might be best advised to get out while you can."

 _"Finch,"_ John says, begging and furious and desperate, what the fuck is wrong with Finch, is he determined to die--

.....................

While John finishes up dinner, Finch sets the table, with the plates and napkins and flatware and glasses they got at the thrift store. Finch joked that if they got married, they could register for all these things. John smiled and asked who they'd invite, and they talked about that, a little, and then the question came up of whether they're ever going to see any of those people again. 

Finch said yes, sounding confident. He says he's going to figure out a safe way to get back in touch, to fight back against the bad guys, to rejoin everyone else who's fighting the same fight they are. That's part of what he's working on, in his office, on his computer.

They eat quietly for a bit before Finch says, in his formal way, "This is wonderful. Thank you, John."

"Sure." John appreciates the praise, but the real test is how much Finch eats. He bookmarks the recipes that disappear fastest, keeps a running top ten list. "You helped, too."

Finch smiles at him. "Did I?"

John smiles back. "You kept me company."

"My scintillating company," says Finch, ironically.

John smiles wider. "Yeah. That. So work not going good?"

"It's fine," says Finch. "Just, slow going. Yes, I'm being careful."

"I know," says John. 

He does know. Finch is as careful as he knows how to be, as careful as he can stand to be. He always has been.

It's probably not enough, but that's-- partly-- why he needs John.

..............

_"How can you trust her?"_

Daisy examines her fingernails, as if to emphasize how little she minds Finch's rudeness. Or to assess whether they're sharp enough to disembowel him with.

"Look," says John, leaning forward, looking up at Finch, "why would she lie about this? She's _got_ us already. Why'd she bother? What's in it for her?"

"Any number of reasons," says Finch, looking at John as if he despairs of him, which is pretty mutual right now.

"Like _what_?"

"We've-- suffered worse-- in other hands," says Finch, biting off the phrases. "Perhaps she thinks we're beginning to take her-- kindness-- for granted. Perhaps it would serve her purposes better if the worst happened to us, out in the world, and we were furnished with a reminder of how much worse it could be. Before being-- remanded-- to her tender care."

"You're right, of course, Mr. Finch," Daisy says, calmly. "I could have any number of nefarious reasons for this offer. And you and I have never established much of a rapport. I realize you don't trust me. But--"

She looks at John. So does Finch. John takes a breath.

 

............

 

After dinner they clear the table, and do the dishes, and then, because it's Sunday, it's time for _60 Minutes._

John half watches, half drowses, stretched full length on their Habitat-store sofa, his head pillowed on Harold's thigh, Harold's hand playing with his hair. He's gotten it cut-- Daisy was right about how long it was getting-- so there's no tangles for the stroking hand to snag on, no sudden small pain to trigger his _punishment_ reflex. It's pure bliss, being caressed like this by Harold's hand. He wishes sixty minutes was longer.

At a commercial break, Finch says, "Are you awake?"

"Yeah," says John. "What's up?"

"Do you work tomorrow?" Finch asks, hand still moving in John's hair.

John works at UPS. The pay's pretty good, the work is pretty mindless, and he gets decent health insurance, with Finch covered as a domestic partner. You have to be there a year before benefits kick in, but John's officially a transfer from another city, who's been with the company six years, no accidents. 

"Just ten to four," says John. He always puts his weekly schedule up on the fridge, but Finch is absent-minded. "Why?"

"In the evening," says Finch, "I'd like to take you out. If you're amenable."

"Out where?" John's mental math kicks in, calculating the budget for the month. Mortgage payment-- small, because his credit was impeccable, and the down payment substantial. Power, heat, cable, wifi, phone. No car payment, the car's paid off, a 2003 Civic with just shy of two hundred thousand miles on it, and a recently replaced timing belt. Groceries, gas, ACLU. He can pick up an extra shift or two, maybe, depending on what Finch has in mind.

There's the black credit card, of course, the one whose billing zip code isn't theirs, whose statement doesn't come to their house, but he'd rather save that for emergencies.

"I can cover the cost," says Harold.

"No," says John. He's given up on yelling at Finch about the risks involved in using his tech skills to siphon cash off enemy agencies, but-- "We don't spend your money like that, Finch. That's for your work."

"Please," says Finch. "I'd like to. Just this once. You work so hard."

"So do you," says John.

"All the more reason."

"OK," says John, after a second. "Just this once."

It'll be as many _just this once_ s as Finch craves. John knows better than to make Finch feel caged up. But he also knows a bit about negotiation.

...........

"Listen," he says, to Finch's disapproving face, "you know what, you don't trust her, that's fine. I don't need you to." He breathes again. "I need you to trust _me,_ Finch, goddammit. I need you to take this leap with me, OK? Before you get us both killed."

Finch's face twists in pain, in guilt, and John wants to stop, to spare him, but--

"You saw me on that table," he says, pushing on. "You heard me screaming. And you still tried again. I'm not _mad_ at you, Finch, I know it's not that you didn't-- care. I heard you yell out, at the end there. But other things are-- more important. To you. Shut up," he says, when Finch opens his mouth to protest. "I'm not _complaining,_ I'm saying, let me give you those, OK? The things, the things that matter to you, more than anything. Let me give you those, if I can. If I possibly can. Please."

 

...................

 

After the news, in the course of their wonderfully boring life, it's time to get ready for bed.

They take turns brushing their teeth in the little bathroom. Harold changes into his pajamas in there, too. He's still shy about his body. Being looked at. He doesn't mind John being naked, but he himself, lacking the physique of a Greek god (he says, and John doesn't mention Hephaestus, flame-lit, weaving nets to catch the wayward gods, forging weapons to make them bleed) prefers pajamas.

John waits in bed, under the covers, until Harold comes to join him, climbs in and flicks off the light. 

(At first they each had their own bedroom, because John didn't want Finch to feel pressured into anything, like John was expecting anything. But when Harold got up in the middle of the night, insomniac, and almost tripped over John, curled up asleep on the floor across the threshold of Harold's bedroom, he made an irritable little tutting noise and hauled John up and in, and now John's bedroom is storage space. Though there's still a bed in there, in case Finch ever feels like exiling him.)

Once the light is off, John stays still, waiting for Harold to either fall asleep or turn to him. Either way's fine-- Harold's regular, slightly raspy sleep-breathing is John's favorite lullaby-- but joy surges in him when he's reached for, almost shyly, hands groping in the dark for purchase on John. 

They come together by feel. Hands on arms, mouth on mouth. John's cautious with the buttons of the pajama top, going slow, waiting for a gentle hand to pull his hand away, but it doesn't, not tonight. The gentle hands are on his own bare skin, eager, trembling a little, Finch trembling as they lie so close, hold one another hard, finding new ways to sink deeper into one another's warmth. Quiet sighs and little cries, in the soft, familiar dark.

...........

"John." 

Finch holds out his hands, and John crawls to him, gets up on his knees and lets Finch pull his hands up into his lap. Looks up. 

It feels so good to kneel to him, but he can't just bow his head, submit and bear what he's given to bear, not with Finch. Finch wakes something up in him, something ferocious, a fighting spirit otherwise weighed down by the hopeless shittiness of everything in general, and the worthlessness of John in particular when it comes to fucking doing anything about it.

He says, "If you're thinking you'll owe her--"

Finch's face twists again, with disgust this time, he really _hates_ her, but--

"No." John's feeling stronger, surer. Daisy's behind him, watching, listening, but he's sure enough of himself, and of her, to say-- "This isn't charity, Finch, we're not taking a handout from her. I have fucking _earned_ this. She wouldn't do this for anybody else. Just me. Because I'm _good._ "

And--

"And that's because of--"

\--say it, you coward--

_\--be brave--_

"Because of you," he says. 

Finch holds his hands tight, looking down at him, seeing-- what? The broken thing he plucked from the gutter? 

Or the fighter he's made, without even meaning to, just by being his undauntable, untamable, unmanageable, completely fucking _exhausting_ self?

"Finch, I--" _Breathe._ "Anything I'm worth, it's because of you. Let me-- give this to you. Back to you. Please." 

_Breathe. Be brave._

"You already saved me," he says. "Let me save us both."

...........

Finch is asleep, and John almost is, when something brings him alert, all of a sudden. He lies perfectly still, holding his breath, not knowing what it was, what he heard. Finch sighing in his sleep, or a creak of the floor, a rustle outside the window--

The windows are shatterproof glass, double- reinforced and locked, heavy blackout curtains drawn over the blinds. There are motion detectors on every possible entrance to the house, cameras on most of them. An alarm system way more technologically advanced than two guys, one a shift worker for UPS, one home on disability and working on some kind of a book, on a very boring topic nobody ever wants to hear any more about, would really seem to need. 

None of that will be enough, if the bad guys are ever really serious about coming for them. 

But there's other stuff, too, that might be enough. And if it's not, there's still--

In the dark, next to Finch, John touches his own breastbone, below the clavicle. Lays his hand on it, like he's about to pledge allegiance.

The mark flushes with warmth under his hand, and he almost whimpers with relief. Stays quiet, though, still listening to the darkness, Finch breathing regularly beside him. John closes his eyes, feels the heat on his breast, waits.

Then her hand is over his on his chest, and his heart jumps, starts to gallop. He doesn't open his eyes, or move.

He didn't know she was coming tonight-- she isn't predictable, not by any pattern he can discern-- but it's been more than a week, and he can feel-- not her hunger, exactly. She's still--

( _Comfortably well off,_ she said, her voice prim and precise, her hands in John's feeling hot, because his were so cold. _If the word didn't currently have certain negative cultural connotations, I might say,_ fat. _Certainly strong. I've--_ )

Not hunger. _Appetite_. 

( _gorged myself on you._ )

He opens his mouth to her kiss. Her kisses, small and sipping. Little hummingbird sips, tasting, savoring.

( _Indulged myself. Possibly at your expense. It's been difficult to exercise restraint. You are--_ ) 

Her hands pin his shoulders to the mattress. Her mark flares, not painful but _hot_ ; he tries not to moan aloud. She promises Finch won't wake to her presence, but still.

( _\--so very, very good._ )

She whispers in his ear, "Have you missed me?"

( _I could go quite some time now, without feeding at all, before I felt any real hunger. Not that I have any intention of depriving myself to_ that _extent. What I'm proposing is to give you a little more space. To-- grow._

 _I'm done growing, Daisy,_ he said, and she said, _You needn't be._ )

He can hear Finch breathing beside him.

He thinks, _Daisy, Daisy._ He thinks, _Thank you, thank you._ He thinks, _Am I good?_

She's already feasting.


End file.
